I have no idea what the life span is of a stone on a Wexford beach. I know what books George Eliot was reading in 1876, and what letters she was writing and what sentences she was composing, and maybe that is enough for me to know. The rest is science and I do not do science. It is possible then that I miss the point of most things—the mild windlessness of the day, the swallows’ flight, how these words appear on the screen as I enter them, the greenness of the stone.
"The Empty Family" by Colm Tóibín